Power.
A small word, yet one that shapes empires, topples kings, and drives men to madness. Throughout history, countless figures have risen and fallen in their relentless pursuit of it—Napoleon, Adolf Hitler, Julius Caesar. All of them, seduced by the dream of absolute control, ultimately succumbed to greed—one of the deadliest sins.
There's an old saying: "Those who are consumed by greed are possessed by the devil himself." The truth of that echoed through the ages. And in the shadows of the modern world, it found its sharpest expression in the underworld.
Since the early '90s, the Mafia had ruled the criminal underworld with an iron fist. Over the years, many organizations rose to power, but sixteen stood above all others. They were feared and respected across continents, whispered about in both back alleys and boardrooms. They were known simply as The Sixteen Emperors—the pioneers of the modern mafia. Smaller syndicates worked under their shadow, paying tribute to their influence, bowing to their authority.
But greed is a hungry beast. And even kings of the underworld are not immune.
The Sixteen Emperors, once bound by a shared hunger for dominance, began to turn on one another. Power bred paranoia. Old alliances crumbled, replaced by betrayal and bloodshed. The empire they had built began to fracture, sending shockwaves through the criminal world. Smaller organizations, caught between warring giants, grew desperate. They pleaded for resolution, knowing their own survival hung by a thread.
Something had to be done.
In an attempt to end the chaos, a high-level meeting was called. The leaders of The Sixteen Emperors gathered in a secluded, heavily guarded location. Each arrived with bodyguards, each suspicious of the others. The air was thick with tension as they took their seats, eyes sharp, hands never far from their weapons.
The debate was vicious. Voices were raised, tempers flared, and accusations cut like knives. Some called for a redistribution of power, a fragile balance that might prevent more bloodshed. But most rejected the idea, fearing it would only breed weakness.
Instead, one proposal emerged—a ruthless, definitive solution.
A single organization would rule the entire underworld. One emperor. One throne.
The question was how to choose this supreme ruler. Hours turned into days as the arguments raged, until finally, a decision was reached. Each of the sixteen organizations would send their greatest fighter into a brutal, no-holds-barred tournament.
A fight to the death.
The champion who emerged victorious would win the throne for their organization. The losers would submit, their empires absorbed under the victor's rule.
It was a gamble soaked in blood. They called it: "Blood and Honor: Battle for the Throne."
The fighters were chosen—sixteen champions, each the deadliest weapon in their organization's arsenal. They came from every corner of the world, their skills as varied as their scars. Some were silent assassins, others brutal brawlers, but all were killers without hesitation.
As the day of the tournament approached, the underworld held its breath. This was no mere contest. It was survival, dominance, and legacy, all written in blood.
The stage was set. The Sixteen Emperors stood ready to gamble everything.
Only one would rise.
The rest would kneel.
And once the first blow was struck, there would be no turning back. The high-level meeting ended with a date set in stone: April 15th.
One month.
That was all the time each organization had to find the fighter who would secure them the throne. Excitement and dread rippled through the underworld. Every mafia family, syndicate, and cartel scrambled to find their champion.
[Samsara Headquarters]
In a dimly lit room, a tall, black leather chair faced away from a group of eight people in tailored suits. They stood in tense silence, their eyes fixed on the chair's back. Slowly, it turned.
The woman revealed was tall, middle-aged, her scarred face carved by battles past. Her dark brown eyes burned like a storm-tossed sea—a tsunami waiting to swallow the world. She wore a fitted suit beneath a long coat.
The moment her gaze met theirs, every executive bowed deeply.
"Boss, the meeting is over," one of them announced.
She hadn't gone herself, instead sending an executive in her place.
"Raise your heads," she said, her voice like tempered steel. "Tell me what happened."
An executive stepped forward and laid out the meeting's outcome.
"Boss," he concluded, "who shall we pick? I've brought a list of the best fighters from across the globe." He handed her a folder.
She flipped through it briefly, then shut it with a sigh.
"None of them."
"None?" a second executive protested. "Boss, these are the best fighters alive. We can't afford to lose."
"Have you already thought of someone?" a third asked, puzzled.
Before she could answer, the door swung open with a bang.
A tall man strode in, rain still clinging to his coat, a confident smile playing on his lips.
"President Ken?" one of the executives whispered, startled. "I thought he was abroad."
Ken glanced at the boss. "Isn't it him?"
"Yeah," she said.
"Who?" the executives asked in unison.
"Yaksha," she replied, her voice calm, decisive.
The executives froze. None of them had heard the name before. They murmured among themselves until she rose from her chair.
"I will go and bring him myself. Meeting dismissed."
The executives bowed and left, their minds buzzing with questions. Only Ken lingered.
"Do you think he'll come?" he asked, his tone now serious.
"It'll be hard to find him," she said with quiet certainty. "But yes—he'll come."
[Yokohama, Japan]
Rain hammered the streets, turning neon reflections into rivers of light.
A tall figure in a black hoodie approached an abandoned building. His hood was low, hiding his face, his broad shoulders shifting with quiet purpose.
Inside, four or five bald men stepped from the shadows to block his way.
"Who the hell are you?" one demanded.
"I'm here for the girl," the hooded man said calmly.
The thinnest of them sneered. "Then you better walk out before we kill you, punk."
"What if I don't?" the man replied, unflinching.
A sudden thunderclap shook the building. The lights died.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Then came the sounds—fists meeting flesh, the crack of bones, grunts of pain cut short by wet, final thuds. When the lights flickered back, the hooded man stood alone, his fist dripping blood. The bald men lay scattered, lifeless.
Without hesitation, he started up the stairs. More men tried to stop him. They fell quickly, his movements mechanical, precise—like a predator moving through prey.
At the top floor, he found the girl. She was curled inside an old cupboard, trembling. A knife hung loosely in his hand.
"Oh," he said softly, realizing her terror. He tossed the blade aside and extended a hand.
"Don't worry. I'm here to rescue you."
She didn't move.
He gave her a faint smile. "Do you know there's a ghost in this building? If you don't come out, it'll eat you." His voice was gentle, almost teasing. "Come on. I promise I won't hurt you. I'll take you somewhere safe."
Fear of the imagined ghost overcame her paralysis. She scrambled out of the cupboard and burst into tears.
He knelt, wrapped her in a protective hug, and whispered, "It's okay now."
On the way out, he shielded her eyes from the trail of corpses.
Outside, the rain washed the blood from his hands.
"Will you come with me?" he asked. "Somewhere safe, where you'll have friends?"
She hesitated. "I'll only come if you tell me your name."
"They call me Yaksha, but you can call me brother Yaksha" he replied.
Her tears slowed. "Brother Yaksha," she said with a small, fragile smile. "I'm going to call you that from now on."
They got into his car and drove off into the night, the rain carrying away the blood and the ghosts they left behind.